


Legacy of Ruin

by fancywaffles



Series: An Azure Dawn [14]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Background Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Fantasy Politics, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Negotiations, Parental Death, Post-Blue Lions Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sreng (Fire Emblem), Sylvain Jose Gautier Needs A Hug
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:35:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28483233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fancywaffles/pseuds/fancywaffles
Summary: When Sylvain's father dies unexpectedly, the weight of becoming the Margrave himself and navigating his feelings about his late father are only overshadowed by how complicated it is to make peace with Sreng.(or, finally murdered the margrave)
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Series: An Azure Dawn [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1654411
Comments: 25
Kudos: 43





	1. Home

**Author's Note:**

> Some of you will know that I have been thinking about this story since last year. I have developed a lot of world building for Sreng and the core of this story will be Sylvain's exploration and making peace with it, but there is also a lot about his own self-reflection and his relationship and future with Felix ~~that sounds more ominous than I mean it to~~. 
> 
> This is not a direct sequel, but this will have HUGE HONKING SPOILERS for [Fell Star, Ashen Heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23015968/chapters/55032958), but you should be able to read this without it. There are also a lot of references to my other [Azure Dawn](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1654411) series things that'll go in here, especially [Barnacle](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22932424) and [Garland Traditions](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23727052).
> 
> This is going to be in four parts, though I do not know how many chapters. Presumably, it will be at least a third shorter than FSAH, since it's only Sylvain POV. I will try to add any specific content warnings if they come up.
> 
> I really truly appreciate any and all comments and kudos and interaction on this and my other pieces. It really means a lot to me that other people are getting enjoyment out of something I am compelled to write. So thank you, <3

### Part I - Gautier

Sylvain woke on a sharp breath, but whatever plagued his mind enough to wake him even before Felix had stirred didn’t escape the fog of sleep. He was left with a racing heart, confusion, and nothing to tie it to.

He had a reasonably educated guess that it was probably related to the whole kidnap and torture thing ten months ago. The lines had faded, but Sylvain could still easily trace the path where the magic had taken hold and felt like it was burning his skin from the inside out.

Not particularly pleasant morning thoughts, so Sylvain focused on the upsides to awakening early. He was up before Felix. This was a rare occurrence, even if they were both conditioned to wake up early during the war. Sylvain had spent the years after trying to learn to sleep in again.

He liked waking up early if Felix was still asleep. It gave him a rare chance to fully take him in without getting pushed away. Sometimes he couldn’t even believe that the universe had decided that Sylvain ‘Fuck-up Champion’ Gautier got to have Felix.

Felix was sprawled out next to him, his hair fanned out against the pillow and his arm slung around the side of the duvet cover. He must’ve gotten hot last night, because Sylvain usually had the luxury of waking up to Felix curled into his neck or shoulder. One long leg was hanging out of the duvet, precariously close to falling off the bed.

He was so fucking cute.

“Stop it,” Felix said, a sleep filled rasp in his voice. He turned to glare at Sylvain and his sharp eyes narrowed.

“Let me enjoy the view,” Sylvain said and ignored Felix’s groaned annoyance and instead took the opportunity to drag his husband properly back onto the bed, chest pressed against Sylvain’s own. He threaded his fingers through Felix’s and Felix leaned his head against his shoulder.

Sylvain kissed Felix’s temple and thought it was probably going to be a good day.

“Did you have a nightmare?” Felix asked, his voice still had that sleep filled rasp, but it was softer, rounded on the edges.

“I don’t know,” Sylvain said, honestly. “Could be Garland Moon’s wave of hormones wafting in through the castle walls and perking up my romance senses.”

“Mm,” Felix said, like he didn’t think that was likely.

“It’s my birthday in a few days,” Sylvain said.

“Yes, I know.”

“What are you getting me?” Sylvain asked. They’d become horribly competitive about showing each other up on their birthdays and Felix _always_ won. Sylvain hated it… and also really, really enjoyed it.

“Who says I’m getting you anything?” Felix’s false disinterest sounded too amused to be genuine.

“I’m going to be thirty-three,” Sylvain said.

“And?” Felix gave a dry snort. “I don’t remember that being a milestone year.”

Sylvain changed tactics and moved his free hand down Felix’s side and started rucking up his sleep shirt. Felix made an irritated grumble, but not an objection so Sylvain moved Felix’s hair off his neck and found his favorite place to leave a mark as his freehand continued its journey upwards.

Felix’s skin was still warmed from sleep. They’d need to start opening the windows again, let in some of the cooler night air, but for now the warmth stretching from Felix’s skin to the path that Sylvain was exploring with his fingers was fine by him. As soft and easily affectionate as Felix tended to be in the mornings, he soon got tired of Sylvain’s teasing and they became a tangle of limbs, lips, and other appendages.

Married morning sex was one of Sylvain’s favorite things in the world. The self-indulgence of potentially being late, only to savor the gentle gasped noises that Felix would bury into his shoulder. There wasn’t a rush. Nothing felt temporary.

When they finished, Felix didn’t object to being almost covered with Sylvain and only trailed his fingers up and down his back, his lips tipped up the barest fraction.

“I love you,” Sylvain said, satisfied, into Felix’s marked up neck.

“I’m not telling you what you’re getting,” Felix said. He flicked his eyes towards Sylvain’s, meeting them and seeing the pathetic depressive sadness that Sylvain tried to convey. Then Felix’s lips went a little higher in their curve. “I love you too.”

“Is that my present?” Sylvain asked, grinning at him and wrapping his arms around Felix.

“No,” Felix said and squirmed a little. He grunted in annoyance. “You’re like a furnace.”

“I’m hot? Are you saying I’m hot, because baby you—” Sylvain’s laugh was muffled into the fingers Felix had shoved into his face to stop his teasing.

“You’re going to be _thirty-three_ ,” Felix reminded him.

Sylvain grasped Felix’s wrist and pulled the hand away. “Are you telling me I have to mature?”

“It’d be nice.”

Felix’s hair was all over the place. It was going to be a nightmare for him to put up. A deeply feral instinct in Sylvain was thrilled he was the cause. “Let me do your hair.”

Felix shrugged at that, clearly pleased by the offer. Sylvain didn’t do it every morning. Most mornings Felix was already up and ready to start his day (almost always at the training grounds—he’d gotten worse in the past year, which Sylvain felt responsible for—given the whole kidnap and torture thing). Sylvain enjoyed the quiet moment, satisfied in the haze of afterglow, as he gently combed out the tangles in Felix’s hair with his fingers before using the brush. He eased some of the knots loose with hair oil and rubbed his knuckles into the base of Felix’s skull.

“Did you know that in old Adrestia, they go for flowers over silk for fourth wedding anniversaries?”

“No,” Felix said. “I didn’t even know about the silk.”

“Felix,” Sylvain chided and separated Felix’s hair into two sections, brushing them out purely to do it rather than it needing to be untangled at this point. “Guess I shouldn’t get flowers or silk for you this year.”

Felix snorted. “It’s cute you think you can convince me you don’t already have plans.”

“Maybe I want you to do the heavy lifting this year,” Sylvain said. He tugged on Felix’s hair when he tried to turn around. “I’m not done yet.”

Felix grumbled, but stayed put. “Why are there even assigned categories for marital presents?”

Sylvain wasn’t actually sure. He’d had them drilled into him at home during one of his many ‘make Sylvain into a proper marriageable Gautier heir and not a strumpet’ lessons. “For people who need ideas, I guess. Loveless marriages, probably,” Sylvain said, resting his chin on Felix’s shoulder. “Wouldn’t know anything about that though, so can’t be sure.”

Felix eyed him, but couldn’t turn his head with Sylvain still holding his hair. “You’re in a good mood today.”

“It’s Garland Moon,” Sylvain said. He kissed Felix’s bare shoulder before leaning back and sectioning his hair out into four strands to braid. “All that new love and summer breezes.”

He started passing the different pieces of sectioned hair over one another in a patten he barely had to pay attention to at this point. If Sylvain had really thought about it, he’d never actually thought he’d get to thirty-three being this happy. He’d always assumed he’d be in his own loveless marriage by now, not comfortably settled with the love of his life. It was hard not to be in a good mood.

He finished off Felix’s braid with a tie and then wrapped it around itself and tucked it under so it was a low bun. Felix waited for an all clear before turning around again. Sylvain smiled as Felix lifted himself up on his knees on the bed and then cupped Sylvain’s face with his hands. “Thank you,” he said, and kissed him softly, before getting up off the bed to get ready.

Sylvain smiled watching him, the ease of the morning routine smothering whatever had woken him up so abruptly. Felix glanced over his shoulder as he started working the ties of his shirt. “You’re up early enough, you could come train with me if you want.”

It was harder to ignore requests from Felix when he phrased them so nicely and with so much room to get out of it—Sylvain was pretty sure Felix knew that. “I’m not going to be much of a challenge.”

“I’m sure one of the younger squires is out this early if you’re worried about that,” Felix said, lips twitching. He finished with his shirt and then started on his vest.

“I don’t know if I want to know if that’s saying a squire would be more of a challenge for you or that I’d want to fight an eleven year old.”

Felix shrugged and continued dressing.

Sylvain pushed himself out of bed, set on giving in, either way. He hadn’t really stepped up his training after all that happened—maybe he should have, but it felt more like he wanted to savor the time he had that was happy and peaceful, rather than prepare for another disaster. “You’re getting breakfast with me after then,” he said, like it was a threat.

“Mm,” Felix said, without turning around. “Only if I’m not too busy picking flowers for our anniversary.”

Sylvain leaned forward and smacked his husband on the ass, earning a startled noise that sounded like a snicker. Then he wrapped an arm around Felix’s chest to drag him backwards into his own, stalling Felix’s progress on dressing. “Riling me up is only going to make us break our promise of not fucking in the training yards.”

“We only promised not to get caught,” Felix corrected. And well… _technically_.

“I’ve been a terrible influence on you,” Sylvain said, laughing.

“Must be the Garland Moon,” he said dryly, as he turned his head. Sylvain took the given opportunity and kissed him again.

“Less of walk, if we _train_ in here,” Sylvain said, between pressed lips as he undid all of Felix’s hard work on getting dressed.

“You’re redoing my hair,” Felix said, with an exasperated huff, that sounded far too fond for Sylvain not try and capture it with his mouth.

It _was_ going to be a good day.

* * *

Garland Moon left Sylvain with little to do, since it was a month more about wedding invitations than diplomatic visits. His Majesty needed far less schmoozing and distractions for visiting nobles. That gave Sylvain plenty of free time to take up his second favorite activity this time of year and share in the palace gossip over who was finally giving a garland to whom.

Marta and Liam had finally stopped dancing around each other, which was good for everyone but Karin who was symbolically holding a garland with no one to place it on. Sylvain was also certain that a scullery maid (either Nina or Destine) was pregnant, though no one was saying _who_ which only made Sylvain more interested. His favorite piece of gossip was that Lord Alden had made a pass at a proposal for Felix’s cousin Teiran, but it had gone so badly that he refused to speak of it and only came back to court muttering incoherently about daggers and poison being quicker.

Between gabbing and making an attempt at helping Dimitri sort through invitations, Sylvain noticed the person whose name he _hadn’t_ heard any good gossip for, with a garland on her head.

“Congratulations,” Sylvain said, as the crown prince’s music tutor, Genevieve Bisset came closer. “Your first Garland Moon and already popular. Although…” He made a face as he gota closer look at it. The garland settled on Gen’s head was was lopsided and had a few of the white flower petals so roughly handled they were bruised. “It looks like a five year old made it.”

Gen practically preened. “He’s six now.”

Ah that explained it. Sylvain laughed, wishing he’d been there to see the prince’s offering during the romantic season. “You’re not going to wear that all day though, are you?”

“Of course not,” Gen said, “I’m wearing this all month.”

Sylvain laughed again. “People are going to think you’re taken.”

“And?” Gen said, apparently not bothered in the slightest by the idea.

“And, it’s Garland Moon,” Sylvain said. He knew they had the same traditions all throughout Fódlan so it wasn’t like it was another Faerghus thing she didn’t understand. “Love and good weather is all around us. It’s prime romance season. Do you know how many babies have been conceived because of me this time of year?” 

Gen wrinkled her nose. “That doesn’t sound like you think it does.”

Sylvain coughed a laugh. “No. I help make matches. I have a good eye for it. How else do you think Corin and Fabrice got together?”

“I hadn’t given it much thought,” Gen said, dryly.

Come to think of it, Sylvain hadn’t really seen Gen give much thought to anyone since she’d been in the palace. “Don’t you want a Garland Moon romance?” He amended, “The romantic kind or the fling type. Who am I to judge?”

“Neither sounds particularly thrilling,” Gen said.

He knew she wasn’t like Annette (and well, even if Annette was like that she still had a girlfriend, so it didn’t have to be about sex… he couldn’t really fathom the concept, but he respected it existed), because of the tantalizing tease of whatever story involved some married noble that neither Gen nor Dorothea would budge on any details.

It seemed a waste, really. Gen was sharp and attractive. She got along with plenty of people in the staff and the ones she didn’t only proved her good taste over theirs. Sylvain wondered who would be a good fit for Gen.

“What about Jonas?” Sylvain asked. Poor handsome bastard had too many run-ins with heartbreak due to his sister Elsie’s high standards. She liked Gen though. Her being one of the few palace staff that actually volunteered instead of being volunteered to help out with the kitchens during Founding Day. Sylvain still thought it was only so Gen could get into one of the warmer rooms in the castle during the unfamiliar harshness of a Faerghus winter.

Gen tilted her head a little, giving him an appraising look. “For claiming to be an authority on romance in the palace, you’re not very observant.”

“You don’t like Jonas?” Sylvain couldn’t help the surprise in his voice. Even Felix liked Jonas.

Gen pursed her lips and then hummed to herself. “Sure. Let’s say that.”

“You can’t dangle tempting threads like that in front of me and not expect me to go after them,” Sylvain said.

“If I wanted something to happen between Jonas and I, it would have already,” Gen said.

“All right _fine_ ,” Sylvain said. He’d come back around on the Jonas thing later. He had other, less withholding sources for palace gossip after all. Elsie happened to _adore_ Sylvain. “What about, uh, that guard guy, Conner?”

“Connal?” Gen asked, bemused.

“Yeah, him.”

Gen stared at Sylvain for a moment and then shook her head. “First of all, he’s technically nobility, second of all he’s married.”

Sylvain did not know about that second part. A hideously insidious part of his brain that wanted to claim any and all rights to Felix in every part of time was relieved that the handsome, at ease, kingsguard of Felix’s exes was no longer a threat.

“So did the noble that you dated—who you so callously refuse to give details on—break your heart so badly you refuse to get romantically involved with anyone?” Sylvain asked.

The pause was substantial. Sylvain had gotten to know Gen pretty well—even a little better than some of the palace staff that he’d known for years—but she was still a little hard to read. There was something about the way her eyes were so dark that made it difficult to distinguish if she was nervous or angry.

“Why are you so caught up on the idea of me having a romance?” Gen asked, instead of answering the question. Which in Sylvain’s opinion answered the question. 

He had to know more. Maybe eventually Annette would get it out of her and he would get it out of Annette (he’d never get it out of Mercedes, and Dorothea was proving to be a nightmare for gossip he actually wanted).

“I’m funneling all the energy I used to use for myself onto the people I like,” Sylvain said easily.

“That’s almost sweet,” Gen said.“But I assure you, I’m perfectly fine navigating my own romantic life.”

“Fairly easy to do when you don’t have one,” Sylvain pointed out. The hint of annoyance on her face was far too satisfying. He could at least read that easily. Practice.

“I was actually headed somewhere,” Gen said, gesturing in the direction she’d been walking.

Sylvain bowed and held his arm out in a gesture for her to take the lead. She rolled her eyes, but smiled a little as he walked beside her. “So where are we off to?” he asked.

Gen shook her head. “ _I’m_ going to my room to grab a few things before heading into town.”

“Hot date?” Sylvain grinned when Gen shot an exasperated look in his direction.

“I’m volunteering my services at the Fhirdiad Foundling Home.”

“Mercie rubbing off on you, huh?” Sylvain asked, although he was pretty impressed. He felt a little lazy using his free time this month to gossip rather than do something _nice_ like that, but he wasn’t sure what he could do for orphans other than keep Ingrid and Dorothea from adopting more of them.

Gen smiled a little. “No, but it was inspired by her. She and Dedue are trying to add a music component to their school, so I’m going to help with that next month. This is because I’m bored. I’m not used to only working for an hour or two a day.”

Sylvain pushed aside his immediate impulse to tease her that surely the prince would love if she expanded her tutoring hours. “I didn’t know you were leaving.”

“Apologies for not updating your schedule, my lord,” Gen said, amused again.

“Won’t Mercie be done cooking by then?” Sylvain asked, making a rounded gesture to his stomach. He tried doing the math in his head, but it wasn’t like he’d been around much pregnancy in his life. He had wisely avoided that through copious study and use of prophylactic herbs.

“Yes, so they need help with the school,” Gen said.

“And you get to see the baby first,” Sylvain pointed out.

“Second,” Gen said, smiling even more. “Annette’s already headed out to help out now.”

That figured. “So should we name you, Saint Genevieve or Saint Genna?” Sylvain asked and avoided the smack she aimed at his arm with a laugh.

That did almost make him run directly into the poor steward who had apparently been hailing him. Sylvain brushed himself off and offered an apologetic smile to Sven, before the smile completely dropped as he realized the steward had a letter in his hand. The seal was immediately recognizable.

“A letter for you, my lord. From Margrave Gautier.”

Sylvain took the letter from Sven and then ripped it cleanly in half before handing it back. “You know you could rip those up before you hand them to me and save us both the time.”

“I could absolutely not do that, my lord,” Sven said, very seriously, but he did take the ripped letter with him as he walked off—at least saving Sylvain the trip of finding somewhere to dispose of it.

Gen was giving him an inscrutable look when he turned back around towards her. It probably looked strange to see him rip up correspondence from any noble, let alone his own father. He gave her sympathy only because she didn’t know the Margrave. “Writing him to ‘fuck off’ only encourages him, so I’ve gone straight to completely ignoring.”

Sylvain had been putting up with his father for years now, even after the bullshit of him refusing to attend his only (living) son’s wedding because he wasn’t getting any heirs—crest bearing or otherwise—that had the vaunted Gautier bloodline. After finding out that his little casual remark of suggesting Sylvain find a mistress had made Felix insecure, Sylvain was done with him completely. Sylvain could put up with enough for his own sake, but the second the Margrave started hurting Felix, that was it.

“What if it was important?” Gen asked.

“It’s not,” Sylvain said. He was certain it was the same bullshit it always was and he didn’t need to give him the satisfaction of even reading it. If there was ever an apology in that cold bastard’s black heart, then it would come to Sylvain’s face, not neatly written on parchment and covered in a wax seal. “I’m not really a fan of my father,” Sylvain added, at Gen’s look—and on remembering the whole, her entire family had been killed thing also added, “It’s easier this way.”

“That’s surprising,” Gen said. She sounded, as she said, surprised—rather than the judgmental tone Sylvain had begun expecting from anyone who dallied anywhere near his relationship to his father.

The idea that he was supposed to always be respectful to someone who had been a living nightmare for most of his childhood—and after minor improvements had transitioned into an artifact that tried to go back to being a nightmare—only because of shared blood and legacy, was fucking ridiculous. Sylvain knew what good fathers looked like and it wasn’t his own.

“He seemed nice, at least,” Gen also said, surprising Sylvain. He’d never heard her talk positively about a noble before. Thankfully, for once she elaborated. “We toured through Gautier when I was with the Leiter troupe. The Margrave ordered several encore performances and even treated the entire orchestra to dinner. Usually nobles only court the favor of the onstage leads like that.”

Maybe there was another Margrave Gautier Sylvain was unaware of. “I didn’t know he was a fan of music.”

“I think it was for the Margravine,” Gen said.

There was a vague memory in the back of Sylvain’s mind of his mother dressing up for the evening to attend an opera performance. He’d been making an excuse to hide in her room and away from Miklan all day and she’d humored him, even going as far as letting him pick out her clothes and makeup for the night. The sharper inflection in that memory was Miklan, right after she’d left, and a dislocated shoulder.

“Well, he’s a dick,” Sylvain said, snapping himself out of the memory. He didn’t want to think about his family, let alone his dead brother. And even more importantly, his mother who refused to ever take his side over his father’s, even when Sylvain _knew_ she didn’t agree with the old asshole.

“Probably,” Gen said, “but not a cheap one at least.”

Sylvain’s annoyance shifted back into amusement as he chuckled. “Hey, if you won’t give me the dirt on the noble who did you dirty, can I _at least_ read your murder opera?”

“Stop calling it that!” Gen’s face lit up red. He’d found that quickest way to embarrass someone who wasn’t easily shaken was to poke at the composition piece she was basing on some serial killer myth, with apparently a comedic take. Sylvain was dying to get a peek at it.

“You only told me to stop calling it murdopera.” Which he still thought was funny. “Come on, I have a highly esteemed author friend who lets me read her early drafts. I won’t judge!”

They’d reached Gen’s room, unfortunately, so she used that as an excuse to retreat from him. In a way, that was also like Bernie. Sylvain had won her over, he could do the same with Gen.

Not like he had anything better to do at the moment. It was going to be a slow month.

* * *

The crown prince of Unified Fódlan was glaring at the princess of Unified Fódlan. So far, Glenn had not inherited either of his parents’ glowering skills and was not really that threatening.

“She didn’t do it on purpose, bud,” Sylvain said.

“She never does!” Glenn said, which to be fair, he had a point.

“Your dad was like this too,” Sylvain said. Almost mostly not a lie. Dimitri didn’t have a _major_ Crest of Blaiddyd and also tended to be guilty when he broke things, not giggle about it. “She’ll get control over it,” he added.

Valya had the awareness of someone who was almost three, which was to say more than people expected and less than people wanted. She toed her little foot against the floor. “‘m sorry.”

Glenn was still glaring, the broken wooden carving he’d gotten from Felix for his birthday still clutched in his hand like it was a precious gem. Valya’s adorable act was getting to Sylvain, it was incredibly effective, but Glenn didn’t seem to be wavering in his hurt from the betrayal of breaking his gift. “Stay away from my stuff!” he snapped.

His little sister’s lip wobbled and those bright blue Blaiddyd eyes clouded over with tears. Glenn immediately looked guilty about it—he was usually pretty good at his big brothering duties, far more like his namesake than Sylvain’s late older brother. Valya’s crying started in a fevered whine and Sylvain only had to open his arm a little before she smashed her face into his chest, sobbing violently.

Before Sylvain could try soothing her, Glenn came over and patted his sister on the back. “It’s okay, Val. I’m sorry I got mad. I know it was an accident.”

Valya turned her head a little to look at him, lip still quivering in a masterful way that was making Sylvain want to start crying himself. “Mad now?”

Glenn shook his head. “No. Not mad now.”

Valya took a little shaky breath and smiled up at him, with a toothy grin. “Can play now?”

Glenn sighed, like he was weighted with all the troubles of the world and the responsibilities—that he couldn’t have even been aware of—from the future already settled on his shoulders. “Yeah, okay.”

Valya used Sylvain’s shirt as a tissue, wiping her nose against it and then scooted out of his arms chasing after her big brother as he walked towards the large rug in his room. It had very little breakable things on it, which Sylvain thought was a wise choice. He took the proffered broken wood carving from Glenn and wondered if the palace journeyman could fix it or recommend someone who could.

It took about three and a half minutes before Sylvain was asked to join and let the kids climb all over him. Glenn tended not to do it as much anymore if he wasn’t around Ingrid’s kids (who had no shame, bless them all for taking after Dorothea in that regard). Being used as a human playground made him regret ignoring Felix’s suggestion of training yesterday. His knees were starting to feel it. Sylvain refused to attribute this to getting old and decided it was because he was lazy.

Sylvain’s head was somewhere towards the floor and his left leg was in the grips of tiny (and sometimes dangerous) fingers when he heard the door open.

“Don’t they pay for a nanny?” Felix asked, voice wry.

Sylvain barely had time to steady himself before Glenn’s excited yell of, “Felix!” had him clambering off of Sylvain and almost tripping over both their legs. Valya at least didn’t abandon him.

Sylvain rolled onto his back and hoisted her up quickly enough that she giggled in loud, obnoxious titters that even got Felix’s lips to twitch.

“Agnia had a date,” Sylvain said, smugly.

His husband rolled his eyes, never impressed by Sylvain’s matchmaking prowess. Felix crouched down slightly as Glenn urgently tried telling him about the broken figure and how it was Valya’s fault and he wanted to make very, very sure that Felix didn’t think he was careless with it.

“It’s fine,” Felix said. “Believe me, your father broke worse when he was even older.”

“And you’re still friends,” Sylvain said, ignoring the interim where they weren’t. Felix didn’t, and raised an eyebrow at him, but kept his commentary to himself.

Instead he stood up and walked over to Valya giving her a stern look. “You need to be more careful.”

Valya’s reply was a very distinguished _pbbbht_ as her lips pressed together against her tongue. Felix did horribly at covering his charmed snort and then looked at Sylvain. “Someone from Gautier came with a message for you.”

“Don’t want it,” Sylvain said. He stood up, taking Valya with him and holding her upside-down. She shrieked her laughter and demanded to be swung in the air.

“He was pretty insistent,” Felix said, frowning. Sylvain wasn’t going to get into their ongoing disagreement of his decision to cut his family out of his life in front of the kids. 

“It’s not new information, Fe,” Sylvain said, swinging Valya absently by the legs.

“I think you should consider—”

Whatever Felix was about to say, he didn’t finish as a knock on the door interrupted him. The knock was followed by the door opening and a familiar dower face was standing outside of it. Sylvain hadn’t seen the Gautier Seneschal for at least over a year and never in Fhiridiad. Hell, Sylvain wasn’t sure that Burel had _ever_ left Gautier, or for that matter even the manor.

“Master Gautier,” Burel said, voice as deep and crackled as it had been since Sylvain was a kid. “It is imperative that I speak with you at once.”

Sylvain couldn’t exactly tell him to fuck off in front of children, so he set Valya down gently, ignoring her whining incoherent protest and took Felix’s wordless offer to watch the kids while he left the room. The door closed behind them, leaving Sylvain free to tell Burel whatever he wanted, but something about the serious expression on his face gave Sylvain pause.

“If you’re here at my father’s request, you can save it,” Sylvain said. “I have nothing to say to him.”

“Your father is near death,” Burel said, straight to the point.

Sylvain couldn’t have heard him correctly, because the idea of his implacable, cold father being anything less than perfectly healthy was unheard of. There was no way he was sick and certainly not injured, so this had to be a joke. “What?”

“He has a day or two left at most,” Burel said. “We have been trying to inform you. Your mother asked that I not return without you.”

Sylvain stared at him, unable to do much more than blink. He couldn’t even process the words. This had to be some new trick. It was creative at least. “What exactly happened?”

Burel looked at the floor for a moment. His wrinkled face softened into something less severe in a way Sylvain only ever saw when the Seneschal was speaking to the Margravine. (Sylvain was convinced he had a torch going for her for ages.)

“A hunt went wrong. A stag caught him unawares and he did not see to his wound quickly enough to avoid the blood fever. It was too far progressed by the time it was caught.”

There was a tepid shallow feeling digging into Sylvain’s gut. He’d felt it once before, when he’d been informed his latest class assignment involved fighting his brother. He still couldn’t put a name to it.

Even with the veracity of Burel’s words and the likelihood of his father doing something so incredibly stupid and obstinant, Sylvain still couldn’t picture it. He’d never seen his father so much as catch a cold. To think of him in a bed weak, bleeding, and feverish was impossible.

Not being able to imagine something didn’t make it not true. Sylvain breathed out, trying to eliminate the tension in his every muscle. “Did he ask for me?”

It wasn’t what he’d meant to say. He didn’t like how it sounded either. That there was still a part of him that yearned for some kind of true affection was pathetic.

Burel, ever the pragmatist, didn’t answer. “You are needed for more than sentiment, my lord. You are the heir.”

Right. _Right_. Right.

Sylvain’s father was dying. The Margrave. Sylvain was taking that title from him since he hadnever quite hit the disowned stage of his broken relationship with his father. (Miklan won something at least.) Sylvain knew it was coming. He knew it would come bitterly over his father’s grave—he just didn’t think it would happen so soon.

Sylvain must have been silent for too long, processing the entire situation, because Burel added, “And your mother did request your presence. Rather emphatically.”

Whatever fugue state he’d stumbled into fractured at that. Sylvain immediately agreed to return to Gautier.

To go… home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> meanwhile, felix listens to glenn excitedly telling him all about his training and progress, while valya looks for something else to accidentally break
> 
> If you enjoyed this please share the [promo tweet](https://twitter.com/waffle_fancy/status/1345085408565030915)!


	2. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylvain returns home.
> 
> (or, okay _now_ i murder the margrave)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tags are extremely relevant warning wise this chapter. Thank you for the kind comments & kudos so far!

The closer they got to the manor, the more Sylvain regretted fighting Felix’s insistence on coming with him. Everything would’ve been easier if he was here. Physically, it wasn’t a difficult journey. This time of year Gautier was acclimate and they made easy time—it was only midmorning by the time they arrived. There were servants to greet them, some recognizable, some not. Less than he remembered, but he hadn’t opened any letters or really spoken to either of his parents in months so if they’d slimmed down the staff, he wouldn’t know.

Sylvain paused at the gate, waiting for the familiar sound of the hunting dogs striding out to bark for attention from him. None of them came.

It _had_ been a while since he’d been home. A mixture of guilt and resignation twisted in his gut at that thought and he let Burel boss his way through the house, past any curious staff, taking Sylvain straight to his mother.

Heloise, his mother’s current ladies’ maid, ushered them immediately towards the antechamber of one of the larger drawing rooms. Sylvain’s mother was sitting in a chair, staring out the window with an expressionless face. She looked willowy and gaunt, as if a ghost was sitting in her place.

“My lady,” Heloise said, gently, “the young lord has arrived.”

Sylvain’s mother looked up and her eyes focused on Sylvain. Neither Miklan nor he had inherited her usually sharp blues—right now they were dulled and dimmed. He wanted to think they were a smidge brighter as she took him in. “Sylvain,” she said. She seemed to have trouble getting to her feet.

Before Sylvain could steady her, Heloise had her arm. She sighed in quiet exasperation. “My lady, I _told_ you to eat something.”

There was a pinched expression on his mother’s face— _that_ he and Miklan had both inherited. “I will later,” she said and shook off Heloise’s arm to immediately grasp at Sylvain’s. “I was afraid you weren’t going to come.”

“I didn’t know—” Sylvain caught the choke in his throat and wondered when the last time she had eaten was. “Heloise,” he said, “it was a long ride, would you mind getting some… breakfast, or whatever the kitchen has readily available.”

Heloise (unlike the harpy that used to be his mother’s lady’s maid, Griselda) was sharp; she immediately caught onto him. Heloise nodded, curtseyed and made her way past Burel, still hovering at the door. Sylvain forced himself not to tell the seneschal to buzz off—if anything, he’d known the Margrave longer than Sylvain did and probably better.

Sylvain squeezed his mother’s arm in a way he hoped was reassuring. “How is he?” Sylvain asked her, feeling like the words crashed into each other—none of this felt real.

His mother’s head dropped, obscuring her features with long pale cerise hair. “He’s resting. Finally. Your father refuses any of the tinctures that would actually ease some of the pain, I…” Her fingers still resting on his arms tightened. “He should have _told_ someone he was injured earlier.”

His father being a stubborn ass. What else was new? “Focus on now, okay? What do you need?”

Sylvain’s mother looked up at him. Her eyes scanned his face and her lips twitched downwards. “You should go see him. Make peace before this…before…”

He’d seen his mother like this maybe once and only for a fraction of a moment before she’d shut herself behind a door and he could only hear the breakdown. It was the day Miklan was disinherited. Also, not so coincidentally, the day Sylvain almost broke his spine and ended up delaying the Academy by an extra year. (He’d _wanted_ to attend with his friends, but that hadn’t been his first choice of accomplishing it.)

“You said he’s resting,” Sylvain said, “I’ll—I’ll go talk to him when he wakes up, okay? Is there anything else you need? Burel said there was some Gautier business that needed taking care of.”

He’d never seen his mother look this tired. She was usually put together perfectly, no matter the situation, but her clothes were wrinkled like she’d slept in them and her hair was only half gathered at her neck, the rest of it randomly splaying out in a chaotic way that seemed strange.

Her voice was quiet and she looked down again. “I… I don’t know.”

“That’s okay,” Sylvain said. He helped her sit again, feeling guilty that helping her was making him feel a little better. Soon enough Heloise returned with a tray of simple things to eat—a small cup of hot brother, hunks of bread, cheese, and some fruit.

“Eat something,” he said as Heloise put the tray down in front of his mother, “for me, okay?”

His mother glanced his way through a curtain of hair—then, after a moment, pushed her hair behind her ears and assented. Sylvain watched her force a piece of bread dipped in the broth down her throat before he finally turned back to Burel—still creeping at the door. “I’m assuming you know what I need to take care of?”

“Of course, my lord,” Burel said. He brought Sylvain to his father’s office, but Sylvain felt like he was going wretch if he walked into it—a not uncommon feeling even when his father wasn’t dying—so they brought the paperwork back to the antechamber. His mother was asleep, resting against the chair, her hand pillowing her head, with a blanket spread over her shoulders.

Heloise quietly came towards them. “She hasn’t slept in days. I think she was waiting until you arrived, my lord.”

“I didn’t know,” Sylvain said, pathetically. The guilt stabbed him between his ribs. How many of those letters that he’d ignored were telling him about this? He looked at his mother and then at Burel holding a pile of paperwork and suddenly needed to see his father—an instinct not well honed enough to come natural.

Apparently, being the soon to be Margrave, leant Sylvain a lot more influence than he was used to. Even Burel didn’t argue with him as he lead him to the room they’d turned into a strange mix of his father’s bedroom and an infirmary. There was a man sleeping on the bed. It couldn’t have been his father, because the imposing nature of his presence would turn this man to dust.

Sylvain couldn’t approach the bed. Instead he found one of the healers they’d thrown gold at and demanded a very detailed explanation of why magic or medicine couldn’t fix this. The healer was patient with him, apparently having already been harangued by the Margravine earlier. The explanation wasn’t exactly simple, but even Sylvain’s bare minimum knowledge of the healing arts could understand it. Fundamentally, some things magic couldn’t fix.

It was frightening and funny—in the kind of way that was also incredibly sad—that Sylvain _knew_ the people who’d tortured him also had the kind of advance medical knowledge that would’ve come in handy right now. Sylvain had no idea if the doctor he’d charmed, Cleo, had made it out—and if so, where she was (if she was smart, which she seemed, not in Fódlan). And anything potentially salvageable in Shambhala was buried under hundreds of meters of scorched earth.

Years of being a stubborn, proud, bastard—fighting in wars, challenging nations, keeping the border secure—and Margrave Gautier was going to die from a fucking hunting accident, because he’d been too assed to get his wound seen to.

“Let me know when he wakes up,” Sylvain said and left the room. Burel followed, still loaded down with paperwork. Sylvain had ridden through the night and it was catching up to him; he was suddenly exhausted. Sylvain took the papers from Burel and went to his rooms—hoping they were still standing and hadn’t been converted into a parlor room out of spite.

Everything was nearly the same as the last time he’d stayed in it. Sylvain settled down onto the bed and paged through the papers, but his vision kept blurring around the edges and fatigue was gnawing at him. He decided to sleep while he could… besides, he really didn’t want to be awake at the moment. It was a good thing his bed was still in one piece.

* * *

Based on the way the sun pierced through his eyeballs since he hadn’t closed the curtains, Sylvain guessed it was about late afternoon once he finally woke up.He wouldn’t call himself refreshed, but the fatigue was replaced with a kind of familiar numbness that meant he could at least be functional.

This time Sylvain paid attention when he paged through the paperwork, separating anything that didn’t need to be taken care of immediately for tomorrow Sylvain’s problem. He noticed that a few of the documents had already been half-filled out by his father.The ink bled into the paper and his handwriting trailed off in a couple of places. He must’ve been working on them while he was getting sicker.

Sylvain felt emptied of feeling and had no idea what to do with it.

It was the same when Miklan died. Sylvain was in an emotionless fugue state, listless and almost uncaring. He still hadn’t figured out how to grieve someone he didn’t actually like as a person—and had made his childhood hell.

Sylvain did what he could with the paperwork (which wasn’t much) and went to see if his mother was awake yet. He was directed to his father’s current hospice. Sylvain hovered by the door before opening and then stopped before he swung the door all the way open when he overheard his parents’ voices.

“It’s a—mat… matter of time now.”

He’d never heard the Margrave slur his words like that. He’d once seen him drink two thirds of a decanter of brandy and still enunciate every letter of each word like it was a competition. Sylvain was pretty sure tipsy wasn’t even a thing his father would agree was a word, let alone a concept. Hearing him now, speaking like that, was so foreign that Sylvain was having trouble wrapping his head around it.

“Don’t say that,” his mother said, in the middle of an argument from the sounds of her fitful tone. “That healer is inexperienced and the one before was mistaken. I’ve already sent for a new one.”

“There are things that need to be done,” his father said. The words strung together and it seemed like it was hard for him to speak. “Don’t go soft on me.”

Well, that one sounded like him.

For some reason that made his mother laugh, a choked noise mixed with what was obviously a sob.“Marcel,” she said. Only his name, but it sounded like a lot more.

Sylvain rarely heard his father’s name. He rarely heard him called anything but the Margrave. Hearing his mother say it, as she bent her head forward to rest on his ailing chest was far too much. Sylvain slipped out of the door, feeling a rise of panic grip his chest. The emptiness had been filled with breathlessness that he didn’t need right now.

It never felt like the walls were caving in, but the sides of his vision were blacking out like they usually did before he tipped into a full—

“Felix?” Sylvain’s panic stalled, caught in his chest in the confusion that he was hallucinating. Felix was leaning against the wall, like he’d been there for more than a moment. He pushed himself off of it and came towards Sylvain slowly—then a little faster as he looked at his face.

“You don’t look good,” Felix murmured, putting his hand on Sylvain’s forehead. He pushed back Sylvain’s hair, wiping away the sweat that was gathering on his brow.

“Always nice to hear from my husband,” Sylvain said, with little feeling. It was an automatic reaction. Felix’s frown seemed to get that and then he pulled Sylvain forward so that he was embracing him. It was exactly what Sylvain needed at exactly the time he needed it.

He had to be dreaming.

“When’d you get here?” Sylvain asked, soaking in the smell and feel of Felix to ground himself in the present. His chest was still rattling on the edges of his breath catching again, but with every smooth rotation of Felix’s hand on his back, it was starting to normalize.

“An hour after you did,” Felix said, unapologetically.

It was so Felix not to listen to him. Sylvain buried his nose in Felix’s neck and hugged him tighter. He stayed like that until it was too uncomfortable for both of them to deal with.

They walked to the kitchens. Sylvain wasn’t hungry, but it was something to do.

“Have you talked to him yet?” Felix asked.

“No,” Sylvain said. All he could see was the stranger occupying his deathbed. His father should’ve been screaming protestations and finding a way to make this someone else’s fault at this point. He should’ve gone down old and stubborn and clinging to his title like a security blanket.

Felix’s pause felt weighted. “Are you going to?”

“I don’t even know if he wants to see me,” Sylvain said. It wasn’t like his father had asked him to come. Maybe it was kinder to both of them to skip the deathbed confessions. The idea of even that version of the Margrave apologizing made Sylvain snort.

“What do you want?” Felix, the love of his life, and the only person who consistently asked that question. A question Sylvain rarely heard.

“I don’t know,” Sylvain said.

Felix nodded and immediately annoyed the kitchen staff into getting some uncomplicated plates of food together in such a Felix way that Sylvain felt his lips twitch. They ate, silently for the most part, but then Felix frowned down at his plate.

“My last conversation with my father was an argument.” Felix looked up at Sylvain, probably trying to judge if he should keep going. Sylvain hadn’t heard him talk about Rodrigue without prompting… well ever. “I wasn’t there when he died.”

Sylvain reached for Felix’s hand. “So you think I should talk to him?”

“It’s up to you,” Felix said, squeezing his hand back and threading their fingers together. His eyes were soft, but there was a hardness to his face Sylvain really disliked seeing. “I don’t know if things would’ve been different if we’d talked one more time or if I hadn’t been halfway across the field. I can’t know.” Felix sighed and looked away. “Sometimes I think he’d still have only words for Dimitri in the end, but it’s hard to be bitter and petty about things when you can’t confirm them.”

Sylvain’s laugh was light and unexpected. “See, there’s an argument I can get behind.” Confirmation that things couldn’t be better if Sylvain had done something differently. He’d gotten that with Miklan and sometimes he almost believed it. He sighed and rubbed his temple with his freehand. “Can’t procrastinate on this one.”

“Probably not,” Felix said, not unkindly, but never mincing his words.

Sylvain lifted his husband’s fingers to his lips. “Thank you for ignoring me.”

“Any time,” Felix said.

Sylvain’s responding laugh turned a little choked and he ducked his head—almost immediately after, Felix’s free hand stroked over his head, gently rubbing against Sylvain’s skull in easy circles.

* * *

It wasn’t that Sylvain felt he needed to speak to his father alone, it was just that even now he wasn’t going to subject Felix to whatever the man had to say. Sylvain wasn’t expecting much or even anything, really. He wasn’t sure what to expect. All of this felt strange.

If not for the sheen of sweat and the clear exhaustion, the Margrave didn’t look much different than the last time Sylvain had seen him. That conversation hadn’t gone exactly great.

When his father noticed him, he sat up in bed, though didn’t seem to be able to get very far up. Sylvain charitably didn’t mention it.

The Margrave looked him up and down and frowned. His words were careful and measured. “Your mother sent for you, I take it.”

No point in pretending his father had sent for him apparently.

“Burel came to get me,” Sylvain said.

For some reason that made the Margrave snort. It was too weak to really suss out if it was derisive or genuinely amused, but Sylvain could’ve bet which.

“It must grant you satisfaction to see me like this,” Sylvain’s father said.

Sylvain’s jaw shifted. “Like hell it does.”

“Let’s not pretend, Sylvain.” The Margrave’s eyes were red around the edges, like he’d been crying or hadn’t slept for a few days (Sylvain could bet on that too). “It’s the least you can do for your dying father.”

Sylvain ran a hand through his hair. “I’m surprised at you. Perfect opportunity to throw one last manipulation at me and all you want is for me not to… what? Be nice?”

The sigh his father let out was raspy and sounded like it came directly from his chest. The healer had said there was fluid build-up there that they were having trouble alleviating. “I have always been a realist. There is no point in being anything else. You would not live up to your potential after decades of being provided every possible advantage, why would I think you would save my legacy now?”

“Legacy?” Sylvain couldn’t believe this, except he could. He very much could believe this. “Is this all about my crest? Are you really, _right now_ , still concerned that I’m not focused on passing it down?”

“What else is there to be concerned with?” His father stared at him. He always knew how to do it like he could see through him. His eyes were darker than Sylvain’s, even darker than Miklan’s. There used to be a rusty shade to his hair that matched it, but the color had been soaked out of it and now it was all grays and memories of pigment.

Sylvain bit his tongue rather than say something stupid like, ‘making amends with your son’ or ‘showing an actual human emotion for once.’

His father seemed to take his silence as an answer and scoffed softly. He coughed into a fist that took him too long to lift. His face stiffened and he clenched his jaw, like he was angry at a minor show of weakness while dying. That felt a little more real to Sylvain—which didn’t exactly make him feel better.

“Mother says you’re not taking the medicine that’ll actually make you not feel like shit,” Sylvain said.

“I will at least have all my faculties when I leave this plane,” the Margrave said, weakly. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Right, because I’ve never had any faculties to begin with. At least not ones that stood up to your standards.”

Sylvain’s father breathed loudly out his nose and gave Sylvain a pointed look. “It is lamentable how little you’ve been able to achieve.”

Sylvain ignored the stab in his chest—somehow even after all the times the blade landed there, it still stung. He should’ve been used to this. “I think I’m doing all right.”

He did. Sometimes.

“You had—” A fit of coughing again. The coughs were rasped and sound painful.

This time Sylvain poured a glass of water and handed it to him. The Margrave looked at it like it was poison, but must’ve wanted to wet his throat more than he wanted to spite his son. He took it and drank a sip with a wince and slow swallow, before leveling his stony gaze at Sylvain again. “You’re wasting it. You are wasting everything we gave you. And for what? For your shallow ideals? Your… personal relationships?”

Sylvain closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He would not punch his father on his deathbed. “My marriage, you mean.”

“Fraldarius and Gautier,” his father said, like he hadn’t heard him. He looked up at the ceiling. “Rodrigue was… well, it was certainly something when we were younger. The dreams we had for you all. The sacrifices we made and for what? To know for certain that every inch we carved for ourselves and our families would be blown away by the wind of inattention from thankless sons.”

Sylvain rubbed his knuckles against the bridge of his nose. Feeling frustrated in this situation was so incredibly… predictable. “Who cares? If you’re not there to see it, who _cares_ if what I end up doing conflicts with your grand plans?”

“ _I_ care,” Sylvain’s father said, sharply enough that he almost completely sat up. His hand on the still mostly full glass of water shook as he gripped it. “Without a legacy there is nothing, Sylvain. Without the remembrance of what deeds you have done, without someone to carry that on. There is _nothing_.”

He stared at Sylvain for a long moment. He didn’t even have to say it.

 _You’re nothing_.

It wasn’t like they weren’t both thinking it.

Sylvain’s father seemed to lose whatever strength had risen in him and he flopped back onto his pillows, water sloshing over the sides of his glass. He pressed the glass to his forehead for a brief moment before shakily and with great effort, placing it on the table beside him. His eyes met Sylvain’s again. “Take care of your mother,” he said. “It is the very least you can do.”

“You don’t have to ask me to do that,” Sylvain said, as if that had been a request and not a command. “I was going to anyway.”

“Good,” the Margrave said. He looked away from Sylvain, eyes unfocused and heavy.

There were things Sylvain could have said. Things he probably should have said, but none of them rose to the tip of his tongue. The ones he thought of felt like lies and he could at least honor that wish and not placate his father with those.

So Sylvain said nothing. He stared at his father, unshakable, unmovable, and so very weak—and turned and left the room.

* * *

“I can’t tell if this is urgent or not,” Sylvain said, rubbing his temple. He’d reread the same line four times, but his brain either blurred the words or refused to retain them.

Felix had patiently said nothing while Sylvain tried badly to grapple with the responsibilities and minutiae of a job he’d accepted was never going to come his way. Felix’s hand was resting on Sylvain’s shoulder and he had stayed leaning against him, standing next to his chair the entire time. “Can I?” he asked, not even presumptuously holding his hand out for the papers.

Felix was treating him delicately, like glass that might break if you breathed too hard. Sylvain hated it—mostly because he couldn’t say he wouldn’t crack.

He handed Felix the paper and sighed. Sylvain watched Felix’s concentration as his eyes flicked from one side of the page to the other. Felix’s lips pursed a little and he got that adorable little scrunch in his brow when he was thinking. He put the paper back on the desk. “It sounds like the herdsmen are having trouble with the minor lords in that territory, but don’t want to directly call them out.”

“What do I do with that?” Sylvain asked, not really meaning to get an answer. “Yell at them and tell them to stop it?”

Felix’s hand moved from Sylvain’s shoulder to his hair and Sylvain automatically leaned into the feeling of his head being stroked like one of the hunting dogs he still hadn’t seen a hair of—he was pathetic.

Felix’s voice was soft. “It’s not urgent, but it probably needs to be seen to soon. If your—if there’s anyone on the staff that has connections in Brindille they can probably help. Fraldarius has intermediearies for issues like this. The specifics involved with the different lands are too much to properly manage without leveraging experts.”

“You’re so smart,” Sylvain murmured, turning his head (for once chastely) into Felix’s side.

“I had help,” Felix said. “My uncle took on a lot of responsibilities so I could stay in Fhirdiad most of the year.” His fingers did that unbearably wonderful thing where they curved up and he started rubbing his knuckles against the shell of Sylvain’s ear and down towards where it met his skull. “It’s late, Sylvain,” Felix said, very softly. He was doing it on purpose. “I think this can wait until morning.”

“Morning,” Sylvain agreed, only because he was too tired to do anything else. He barely noticed being helped out of his desk chair and wasn’t even sure how or when his shoes came off, but then he was in his bed, with Felix still there, absently stroking his hair.

Sleep came too easily.

* * *

Sylvain slept far past breakfast, only awoken to be told his father had passed during the night.

Marcel Julien Gautier died in his sleep.

And Sylvain Jose Gautier was now the Margrave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fódlan Historians later argue about the accuracy of the Margrave's first official words being, "Well, fuck me."
> 
> If you enjoyed this, consider sharing the [promo tweet](https://twitter.com/waffle_fancy/status/1356775190164738050?s=20)!


End file.
